


One-night Stand of Truth

by Elefwin



Category: Only You (1994)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elefwin/pseuds/Elefwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when your heart is broken and your balls are busted on a fine summer night, what do you do? drink it off, then sleep it off... what else?</p>
            </blockquote>





	One-night Stand of Truth

Americans, Giovanni thought, climbing the stairs and dragging Peter Wright along, were insane, men and women alike. Stark -- another step -- raving -- one more, and a turn -- mad. The floor lurched under his feet. He propped Peter up against a wall and contemplated the almost unbearable cruelty of life:

He, Giovanni, should have been losing his breath in a fine woman's embrace, not hauling some drunk schemer around as the night grew old. And Peter, what with all the brandy and wine now mixed in his skinny body, _ought_ to be out cold somewhere… Ah, well. The fine woman chose the worst possible moment to remember to be a faithful other man's wife, and Peter fucked up so spectacularly it was going to become a legend around here, so they whiled the night away drowning their sorrows. Someone even got punched in the face. It was a _classic_. They shouldn't have had to face harsh reality till late afternoon at least, rocked to oblivion sweet in the bosom of the sea…

…and thoughts of a bosom had absolutely no right to cause a spike of pain up one's head. Giovanni groaned:

It was all Peter's fault. At first he wouldn't shut up, not even when Harry hit him in the face, and then he wouldn't stay put. Oh, he was all right, but Giovanni's friends would rather not have to fish his body out of the bay come morning, so…

…here they were.

_Fuck_ it.

"C'mon," he sighed, nudging Peter, who slumped comfortably and was staring dreamily at the ceiling. "Almost there." _And then I'll -- I'll tie you to the bed, if that's what it takes, and walk out, and will be rid of you and your crazy kind for good, so help me..._

It took effort to sort out limbs and find the right direction. Mid-corridor their stumbling progress had turned, thanks to Peter's sense of rhythm, into a dance of sorts, and then they slammed into a door.

"Ow," said Peter.

"Look, 's your room!"

"It is?"

"Oh, yes. Go on in, go to bed. No more destiny tonight, okay?"

"Okay."

"Good!" said Giovanni, drunk again with fatigue and relief, and patted him on a shoulder, and gave him a sound kiss on… the lips, as it happened. Because his coordination was shot, that's why and how. Warm, pliant, slightly parted lips. Ah, _merda_. "Look…"

Looking startlingly sober, Peter pressed those lips into a tight line and glared at him. He stepped back, just in case, but Peter leaned forward, grabbed him by his shirt collar and, still glaring, kissed back like there was no tomorrow.

At first it did feel like a punch, angry and hard and full of teeth. Giovanni sucked out the anger, a bitter draught, like venom from a wound, and bit back, but gently, and got Peter to moan and tug on his hair for a better angle, and _yes_. There was this magic mouth, live hot and willing, tasting of sea salt and wine, coaxing bits of soul and last vestiges of sense right out of him.

"You," Giovanni almost accused, coming up for air. "You kissed that girl."

"Mm-hm."

"And she kicked you out."

"Yeah."

Mad Americans, thought Giovanni, planted both hands on the still locked door, and sank into one more heady kiss. Frustration, that's what it was, they both were pretty damn frustrated…

"I thought," said Peter into his neck, "you wanted me in bed?"

Ah, yes, that. If they found the key.

They went through three sets of pockets and found: that Peter was ticklish, that they were indeed frustrated, a handful of small change in mixed currencies, and _many_ keys, one of which fit.

...And that was it. That was -- Peter shedding his jacket and shoes, crashing face-first into the pillows with drunken grace and a happy sigh -- definitely it. Giovanni couldn't -- no, scratch that, he damn well could believe it. _Buona notte_ and all that... but for a very warm hand on his thigh. Peter rolled over onto his back in a boneless sprawl of shadow and softly glowing white, and moved that warm hand, molding the palm to the curve of the leg, stroking up and down, and when that did not work his other hand snaked into Giovanni's belt loops and yanked.

Mad and lucky, thought Giovanni as his knee hit the mattress, missing Peter's crotch just barely. His head spun. Lucky Peter made a small contented sound and rubbed against his thigh, wandering hands tugging and pulling until he went down in a tangle of limbs and a half-peeled off shirt. It was mad, all right, and awkward, and hot, and too good, even if he had to dislocate a shoulder to undress because someone would not stop moving. He rolled Peter's shirt up and over the head, leaving his arms trapped still and his own hands free to touch all that new skin. The fellow might've looked skinny, but Giovanni felt solid muscle tense and flex when he ran a hand up a hot flank, teased a nipple, sucked on Peter's throat... And the fellow knew how to use that lithe strength, twisting and turning and shifting their double weight until their groins were suddenly perfectly aligned. He rolled his hips, making Giovanni bite down hard.

He heard -- and felt -- Peter's breath catch and release in a long, soft, _needy_ sound, a want that clouded eyes and thought, that almost hurt. Peter tore the shirt off, and his hands were everywhere. On his shoulders, holding him closer -- _closer_. On his ass, slipping into his slacks, kneading, squeezing, closer still. Fumbling with buttons, zippers and belts. All Giovanni could do was hold on, tight enough to bruise now sweat-slicked, fever-hot body in his arms. Just trying to keep up. No woman ever... Peter took his hand and brought it down to wrap around their cocks, hard and wet, and Giovanni's mind went blank. No woman indeed. Peter's other hand has locked on the nape of his neck, holding him down for a kiss deep and desperate. Peter bit his lip, and swallowed his whimpers, and sucked on his tongue in sync with the faster, rougher strokes of their linked hands...

Somehow, _somehow_ Giovanni stopped, on the verge of an orgasm -- or a heart attack. To his surprise, Peter stopped too.

"What's wrong?"

"_Niente_... Nothing," that came out as something between a sob and a laugh. "Just... slow down."

"Oh. Oh, I..." They lay together, gasping for air, feeling the tension give and melt into a bittersweet full body ache. Peter's hands slid up Giovanni's back, thoughtfully, carefully, and tangled in his hair. Peter's eyelashes tickled his temple. "_Lento_?"

"Yes... Pants."

Peter laughed out loud. He was also very eager and compliant, warm and slender-strong all over. Naked at last, Giovanni rolled them over, rubbed them together, scratchy and silky, and -- Peter really had an amazing sense of rhythm. He got them moving again, sinuously, slowly, almost lazily, building up something not urgent but inevitable... Giovanni was nipping at a delicate collarbone, unawares, when a long heavy wave of pure pleasure hit him senseless and dragged him under.

...There was sun in his face. Giovanni grunted a protest and turned in bed. It... did not hurt, like a hangover might, but now he had a face full of hair. Which smelled nice. Seemed like he did not have a choice. Giovanni cracked an eye open:

Peter was still asleep, curled around a pillow, hair sticking out, skin sun-striped... tempting. Giovanni reached out and traced a line from shoulder to hip, fingers lingering, cupping now familiar angles, loathe to let go. Peter shivered under the touch and looked up at him through incredibly long eyelashes. Morning light struck his eyes golden. Giovanni sighed and took his hand away.

"Morning?"

Peter frowned in recollection, then gave him a happy, loopy grin:

"_Good_ morning."

"Yes, that," Giovanni could not help grinning back. He got up, careful to hold on to this lighthearted ease, and dressed, body still half-awake, aware of Peter's silence and golden gaze. His clothes might just do to get back to his room and not scandalize other guests much. He... all right, he was hung over. And he should not have, but the remedy was right there:

He sat on the bed and leaned down, and Peter arched up until their foreheads touched, noses bumped, and lips brushed. American madness, Giovanni thought, was contagious.

"Pack," he said softly, "and I'll drive you to the airport."

That got him no thanks but an early morning kiss.


End file.
